Nice Rims, Sammy
by Balletvamp
Summary: Sabriel.  Set at some point post Changing Channels  will reveal when exactly later .  Gabriel takes advantage of Sam by changing him into the Impala again. Will have higher rating in later chapters.


_Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Supernatural. Which is very saddening but so it goes._

Callused fingers trace appreciatively over clean sharp lines and smooth black metal. Sam would have shuddered, caught somewhere between exhilaration and repulsion, but as things stand he didn't have the means, so it'd be pointless to ponder the implications of his feelings.

After all, Sam is a car. And not just any car, but the Impala. THE Impala. Again. On top of that, he's being felt up by an archangel. His mind can't even fully wrap around the concept of having a motor vehicle as body, yet he's fairly certain Gabriel has left the realm of 'safe touching' as he lays a hand on the hood and smirks.

"Looking good, champ," the prankster angel's voice is cheerful with just a hint of cheek. Par for the course, thinks Sam and then pauses to consider where his brain might be, to be having these thoughts at all. Such rumination could easily lead to a psychological collapse, he decides, and it's hard enough just coming to terms with the simple matters like how to give the dickhead archangel a piece of his mind without a mouth. That feathery douchebag with an ego the size of Texas. He remembers he can use the radio to communicate but it's not an awful lot of help when the puny smirking bastard isn't inside.

Though, he realizes, he could easily run the other over. The Impala's turbo-jet V8 engine roars to life, managing to bear an ominous sound of intent before a snap of quick working fingers ushers in silence once more.

"Now now, Samantha," Gabriel chides, waving his finger, a shit eating grin blooming on his face, "No need to go getting so petulant. Don't want you going all Christine on me."

Of course, the pop culture loving jerk of an angel would reference a Stephen King book. Or more likely the movie, judging by Gabriel's track record. The horn sounds, loud and brassy, in that way older cars have a special knack of. It would have startled most people into at least a flinch, but then Gabriel wasn't most people. He wasn't even people, however human his vessel might seem. Which was probably a bit dubious an observation coming from someone who was currently a car.

"Uh uh uh," the cocky Trickster scolds and then chuckles before continuing, "An advantage of having you in this form, you can't bitchface at me. I do have to admit though, I've grown a bit attached and find your bouts of girlishness to be strangely endearing."

He turns, draping himself languidly over the hood on his stomach, toes just barely touching the ground as he lays his chin on his folded hands and regards Sam.

"But right now, I just like having you completely at my mercy, to do with as I please." He pauses, eyes heavy with suggestion before he waggles his brows, "What do you say I take you for a ride?"

Sam can't imagine how Gabriel makes just those two sentences sound so completely pornographic, or maybe it's just he's been spending too much time around his brother who so often confuses porn and reality. Amusing, almost, how Dean and the pagan archangel are so similar…or not so amusing, considering where Sam's thoughts in regards to Gabriel had a tendency to stray. He blanches mentally at the memory of a study he read in school theorizing sexual attraction to those who reminded one subconsciously of their parents. If Gabriel was like Dean, who for so long strived to be comparable to their father… Ugh. Sam's mind eschews the thought with a firm hand and he revs himself into reverse, hoping to catch the Trickster, still lounging on the hood with a knowing smirk, by surprise.

For a moment, the hunter can't feel Gabriel's weight any longer and the lights on his front grille flare up in a vibrant dance of exaltation. Some lessons are hard learnt, Sam realizes though, as the Trickster has hoodwinked him once again. Settling himself in the backseat, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles along the black leather, Gabriel gives the nearest door a fond pat.

"Comfy!" he crows, entirely too pleased with himself for Sam's liking, "Been wanting to get myself inside your back end for a while now."

"Gabriel," Sam can use the radio now to communicate, his voice a bit distant and tinny but still holding the obvious impression of reproach.

"Oh Sammy," the archangel squirms about in the back seat, purposefully exaggerating his movements, and the younger Winchester wishes he had a better handle on how this body…this form is affected by physical perceptions and manipulations, "Say my name again, all grumpy and snooty like."

"You're such a dick, you know that?"

"Oh stop, I'm blushing!" Gabriel is short enough to be able to actually lounge across the back seat with far more ease than even Dean could have managed, stretching his arms up before resting them behind his head for mere moments, causing Sam to hope he's finished before the angel flips over again, resting his cheek against the backrest, movements smooth, liquid. He'd compare the impish creature of the divine to a cat, but figures that would be an insult to cats. Though, a smaller part of him nags, whispering it would be an insult to the angel, because nothing earthly, even cats with their questionable camaraderie with the supernatural, could begin to describe Gabriel.

"No, really," Sam rebukes, the speakers popping at the sudden increase in volume so the aggravated hunter could cut the other off, "It's like Cas is the only one of you lot that is not a supreme douchwad."

The air became pregnant with the quiet that follows this statement. Sam finds himself confused, thrown off balance by Gabe's lack of witty rejoinder, the angel instead continuing to rest his head, staring out the window in apparent thought, lost someplace the hunter couldn't follow, as fingers tap a soundless tune over the seat by his hip. There was no way Sam can know Gabriel is ruminating on the memory of Castiel's still undiscovered betrayal of the Winchesters, a bolt unlatched in the past that sent the proverbial penny twirling airborne. And the younger Winchester will never know of the archangel's kindness in not revealing that even their beloved Cas had his uber douchey moments. A gift to the only family Gabriel still feels he wants to make amends to for his abandonment of the Host and a gift to the human brothers whose only remaining faith in the Kingdom of Heaven is an awkward angel inhabiting the body of one Jimmy Novak.

Dean would have missed it, the subtle momentary change in the angel's mood, golden eyes already shuttering, eternal joker's mask falling easily into place. But Sam had always been the more empathic and caught the lull in impish joviality, the crack in Gabriel's facade. He wasn't about to kid himself that he knew enough about the holy creature, pagan tainted or not, to begin to fathom what the other was thinking or the cause behind the break. Cas was their friend, someone Sam trusted completely, and even Cas could be unpredictable and surprising in his otherworldly nature. An archangel turned Nordic deity was nearly beyond imagining. No matter how often Sam might lapse into thinking of the tawny haired man as so very human.

"Aw, I know you Winchesters are my baby bro's number one fans, but you're breaking my poor little heart here, babe."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're real torn up about it," Sam snarks back, but the voice coming through the radio has less bite to it because the younger Winchester can't help but respond to the signs of emotional pain, however slight. Dean had once compared him to a shark at the smell of blood, if "sharks were into touchy feely hippy crap". Which, at least was an improvement on the time the elder Winchester had asked if he should worry his younger brother was in danger of growing a vagina. A time when Sam had been the one laughing at the end, as Ellen had been within hearing distance and Dean couldn't sit comfortably for a good few hours once she was done with him. He'd been more careful with running his mouth off about gender roles at the Roadhouse after that.

It seems Gabriel is as keen on avoiding the topic of feelings as Dean usually is, as the angel is back to stroking the dark vinyl of Sam's interior, smile sharp and eyes calculating. Sam sighs and it comes out as a gentle revving of the engine.

"Could use a little something, I think," Gabe's voice is sly and considering, "Know big bro loves this car, but you know what would improve it? Leather seats."

The engine rumbles, a faintly nervous sound, because as illogical as it is, Sam can't help the automatic cringe of anticipation for Dean's forthcoming ire at his beloved baby being misspoken of. And the archangel rolls those otherworldly golden eyes as if he can tell before snapping his fingers and really Sam is beginning to suspect the flamboyant gesture is all for show, all because Gabriel wants the attention, lives for it. The hunter is more than willing to give it to him as he feels the strange sensation of tickling and twanging as something about his form changes, the shift as all the seating turns into supple leather, and isn't that just the most bizarre experience. Sam's been to hell but the mechanics of being a vehicle still make his mind shy away. It's almost nice, in a way, to know there are still things that can effect him on such fundamental levels.


End file.
